


Smoke Signals

by SaltCore



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dr. Ziegler has a laryngoscope and is ready to hand out punitive intubations, Fareeha would like a new brother hers is defective, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Human Trash Fire Hanzo Shimada, Humor, Jesse McCree is often wrong but never in doubt, M/M, Nosy Hanzo is Nosy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, derailed proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-26
Packaged: 2019-01-21 17:32:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12462525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaltCore/pseuds/SaltCore
Summary: Hanzo was just trying to stay out of the line of Dr. Ziegler's fire. He didn't have any idea he was about to ruin McCree's surprise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rare cross post from tumblr, lightly edited for use on AO3.

Hanzo has, without guilt or reservation, thrown McCree under the metaphorical bus. He would jump in front of a real bus for McCree in a heartbeat, but he absolutely lets Dr. Ziegler think the lingering stench of tobacco on the two of them comes from McCree and McCree alone, because, frankly, she frightens him. (She’s always perfectly professional, but she carries a concerning number of full syringes in her lab coat and Hanzo’s instincts tell him that if he ever finds out what they do, it will have been the hard way. Also, she has disconcertingly good aim for someone who (ostensibly?) swore the Hippocratic oath.)

He hasn’t _lied_ to her, exactly. He just hasn’t corrected her assumption that Hanzo occasionally smells like smoke because of spending time with McCree. He does spend a lot of time with McCree, often when he’s smoking. He’s just, well, also smoking. It’s a filthy habit and all. He’s not going to stop.

So, now that he’s watching Dr. Ziegler yell at McCree and grab at his cigar case, which is held over McCree’s head, he doesn’t try to help. He really can’t afford to draw her attention, and ire, toward himself. McCree is shooting him looks between fending off the doctor and trying to flee like he’s expecting Hanzo to say something. Hanzo would feel worse if Dr. Ziegler weren’t trying to prolong McCree’s life.

Fareeha is leaning in the door frame, not exactly helping the doctor, but also looking like she absolutely would trip her brother if he tried to make it past her. Dr. Ziegler is shouting about decreased lung capacity. Hanzo is trying to remember whether the outside of this part of the Watchpoint is navigable. McCree looks like he’s just realized his chosen hill reeks of very limited life expectancy.

Hanzo mouths _sorry_ as he starts edging back and around to the window. He’s confident that while McCree might lose this battle, Dr. Ziegler won’t make much headway in the war. If McCree loses the cigarillos and has to smoke his menthols for a few days while he makes a show of trying to quit, so be it. (Nothing and no one is worse than McCree in the middle of a nic fit. Hanzo, were he not trying to make a clean exit, would invite the doctor to deal with a withdrawing McCree personally. She is, after all, willing to inflict him on everyone else.) So long as McCree doesn’t give him and his own cache of tobacco away, the doctor will eventually divert herself from the cause with one of the ever present medical crises a vigilante paramilitary organization provides.

McCree barely shakes his head–- _don’t you dare_. Hanzo gives him the barest shrug–- _what am I supposed to do?_ McCree’s expression shifts suddenly to something that looks like trouble, and he tosses the cigar case to his other hand and shouts,

“Go long, sugar!”

McCree throws the case across the room, aiming about two feet to Hanzo’s left and closer to the window. Hanzo grabs it out of the air and barrels for the escape. It’s not locked, and he hauls the sash up and begins to swing himself out before either Fareeha or Dr. Ziegler have really put his plan together. He glances over his shoulder just long enough to see Dr. Ziegler start to reach into the pocket of her lab coat and _nope_. Not today, he’s not going to find out what those do today. Hanzo stuffs the case between his teeth and starts climbing. He hears Fareeha squawk in outrage and the rapidly fading jingling of McCree’s spurs as he makes his own escape.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo settles himself on the roof of the comms building, letting his legs dangle through the railing. The sea breeze feels nice after the climb up here, and he closes his eyes and leans into it. He can’t hear anything but the wind and the distant seabirds–-if McCree plans to join him, it will be a while. Losing his sister and the doctor will be non-trivial, as the doctor seems unusually determined to make him kick his smoking habit this time and he probably had to tackle his sister out of the doorway so she’ll be wanting to get even. And even with neither woman looking for him, McCree would still have to take the long way up.

Hanzo turns McCree’s cigar case over in his hands. It’s plastic, painted to look metal, and battered. Hinged along one side, it opens like a book, but the latch is beginning to slip, never quite holding the case properly shut. Hanzo wonders if it’s got some sentimental value or whether he could get McCree a nicer one. He was very determined to keep it away from Dr. Ziegler, but if it had been precious, certainly she or Fareeha would know better than to try to take it. Maybe he could get the latch repaired instead.

He opens it to inspect the mechanism. In one side are tucked a few photographs–actual paper photographs. The one on top is of Hanzo himself, a candid Hanzo doesn’t remember being taken. Hanzo’s lips are curved up a little, his head tipped down to try to hide it. It must have been taken at the Watchpoint. Perhaps he’d been caught by Hana, she’s constantly finding things worthy of photographing.

Behind the one of him, there are a half dozen others, all much older. He knows a few of the people pictured personally and some only by reputation. A younger Fareeha and her mother, Gabriel Reyes and his subordinates, a picture of half the Watchpoint’s current residents but younger and in costume, Genji holding up what looks like a written reprimand and grinning, a group picture of a squad of stone faced men and women in full tac gear, a very young McCree sitting on a woman’s shoulders.

Hanzo carefully tucks the photographs back in the case and pulls a cigarillo out of the other side. He’s earned a little shipping fee he thinks, and he has a lot of time to kill.

There is something stuck in the case behind the cigarillo Hanzo just liberated. It’s gold, shinning in the late afternoon sun, but small. He has to stare at it for a beat too long before he recognizes it as a ring. He stuffs the cigarillo between his teeth and pulls the ring out of the case. It’s a simple gold band, free of wear. Almost certainly new and not a treasured heirloom. The surface is simple and unmarked, but there’s writing inside the band.

_Mi Corazón_

Hanzo stares at the thing between his fingers, frozen. It seems like an impossibility. Hanzo, with faint tremors in his usually steady hands, slips the ring onto his third finger. It fits perfectly.

The weight of it is strange, even moreso because of what it is–-a tangible reminder of McCree’s affection (as if McCree weren’t liberal with his touches and open with his praise, but having something there when the man himself is absent, well, that's a treasure in itself). Hanzo tucks the ring back into the case and the case into his pocket. He take his lighter out of his other pocket (Even when he doesn’t take his cigarettes he keeps a lighter on him. McCree can’t keep up with his to save his life.) and lights the stolen cigarillo.

 

* * *

 

The sound of McCree’s spurs precedes the man himself. Hanzo gets to his feet and leans back against the railing to watch him ascend the last of the stairs. McCree looks no worse for wear. He must have been able to lose Fareeha.

“Hey, darlin’,” he says. “Nice climbin’. Heads up, Angie now considers you an accessory, so watch out fer that.”

Hanzo huffs. Well, at least he’s been warned. Hanzo pulls the case out of pocket, and holds it out to McCree. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the minute shift in his posture and expression that signaled the change from McCree actually being relaxed to only pretending, but Hanzo isn’t most people. McCree takes the case and stuffs it into his back pocket.

“Thanks. Uh, you didn’t open it, didja?”

McCree might not remember how many cigarillos were in the case, but the smell is stilling lingering in Hanzo’s clothes. There’s no point in lying even if Hanzo wanted to.

“I did.”

McCree’s tell is that he doesn’t have one. Where most people fidget or look away, McCree goes perfectly still. Hanzo learned that the hard way playing (and losing) poker with him. He’s truly nervous, then.

Hanzo steps forward, into arm’s reach. McCree watches him, almost wary. Hanzo grabs a fist full of serape, the thick material familiar under his fingers, and pulls, slinging his other hand behind McCree’s head to guide him down for a quick kiss.

“Your answer is yes, of course. Absolutely, yes.”

McCree whoops, lifting Hanzo off his feet and spinning them both around. His grin is infectious, and Hanzo buries his face against McCree’s chest to hide his. McCree pulls the case back out and opens it, taking out the ring. He slides it onto Hanzo’s finger with a flourish and leads them both back down the stairs, laughing the whole way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and feel free to hmu at https://saltytothecore.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was goaded into writing more. I'm easily suggestible.

It’s most people’s dinner time when Jesse and Hanzo wander back inside. McCree drags Hanzo toward the mess, eager to share the news. Hanzo doesn’t relish the thought of the attention, but he does like the idea of everyone knowing. He keeps glancing down at the ring like it will disappear. It’s as solidly there as McCree is, walking with his arm slung across Hanzo’s shoulders. Hanzo curls his fingers into McCree’s belt loops, just enough to feel grounded. 

Their entrance catches the attention of most of the occupants of the mess. McCree is still grinning; he doesn’t seem able to stop. Hanzo reaches up and twines his fingers with McCree’s, the ring in full view.

Genji waves at them, frantically chewing. Hanzo tenses. He wasn’t anticipating his brother’s disapproval, but suddenly doubt seizes him. If Genji objects–--

“No, you bastard!” he groans. “What happened to the plan?”

McCree chuckles, scratching his head under his hat.

“Hit a snag! Blame Angie.”

Genji looks around frantically, scowling. Dr. Ziegler looks scandalized at being called out.

“Plan?’ Hanzo says under his breath.

“I panicked okay! I didn’t want Angie or Reeha to give me away and you have to find out _that_ way.”

Hanzo tries to fight down his smile and bumps McCree’s hip with his own.

“How does it go? ‘No plan survives contact with the enemy’?”

“Glad you understand, sweetness.”

Their squadmates swarm them, offering warm congratulations and teasing and a few hugs. Hana snatches Hanzo’s hand away to inspect the ring, demanding a detailed retelling of the afternoon’s events. Reinhardt starts pouring schnaps for a toast. Genji shoves his tablet under Hanzo’s nose–apparently his wedding colors have been decided. Lucio asks for any tracks that must be excluded for the reception. Mei looks like she’s about to cry from excitement.

Suddenly, McCree is wrenched away. True panic seizes Hanzo, and he spins on his heel with his fists raised.

Fareeha is backpedaling with her arms wrapped around McCree’s neck. McCree tries to flip her, but his angle is bad and he doesn’t quite have the leverage.

“How do you like it, you asswagon!”

“Reeha, I swear to god!”

They stagger for a moment before McCree drags them both to the ground. Hanzo briefly despairs of them both. He can’t very well strike his future sister-in-law, but he thinks his new position gives him the leeway to take umbrage.

“Stop hitting my fiance!” he snaps.

“He was my brother before he was your-– _ohshitwhatreally_?” _  
_

Fareeha goes slack with shock, giving McCree the clearance he needs to wriggle free and get back to his feet. He dusts himself off, looking a little abashed.

“ _No_.”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t _tell me_?”

“Hell no, Reeha. You’d’ve balled it up on purpose.”

“That’s fair.”

Fareeha accepts the hand up McCree offers her. Once on her feet, she hauls him into a hug, then turns to hug Hanzo. Hanzo, in that moment, vividly remembers the laundry list of threats Fareeha had leveled at him when he and Jesse had first become an item. And here she is, hugging him. He supposes he’d passed her muster, finally.

“Welcome to the family, don’t think we’ll take it easy on you.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Hanzo replies. Fareeha’s smirk is eerily similar to McCree’s, and Hanzo hopes he doesn’t regret his bravado.

The two of them are swept to the table and food appears. Hanzo hardly tastes it in the frenetic rush to field questions. He hardly knows what, if much at all, McCree has planned. He glances at his fiance-–the word sends a shiver through him–-and finds he can’t wait to see himself.


End file.
